


in clumsiness and in perfection

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Chastity Device, Collars, Dark Will Graham, Dom Will Graham, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Sub Hannibal Lecter, Weddings, Young Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22727968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: The wedding of a dominant and a submissive is the most important event in a submissive's life. After all, if they make a mistake and are rejected, it'll be a black mark upon their record that may never be erased, and they'll be sent back for a brutal retraining regimen. This is why Hannibal has trained for eighteen years to be absolutely perfect.So, of course, he trips and face plants halfway down the aisle.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 303





	in clumsiness and in perfection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BonesAndScales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesAndScales/gifts).



> This fic represents a lot of firsts for me: first submissive Hannibal, first BDSM sort of world, first not "cut to black" for anything and everything in regards to sex. So, uh, please bear that in mind as you read, and be gentle.
> 
> Warnings: This is a sort of dystopian world where submissives have no rights, so there is the blatant imbalance of power there. There is discussion of mutilation and castration of the noncon variety, although it never happens. And Hannibal also gets his a** beat.
> 
> For my dear Skeleton [BonesAndScales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesAndScales) \- HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY I HOPE YOU ENJOY.

“Are you nervous?”

Given that Hannibal has only just sat down in his chair, he thinks he should be forgiven for taking several moments to answer. First off, it’s always intimidating to be the full focus of Headmistress Bedelia. For another, Hannibal hasn’t sat in a proper chair in years; submissives are meant to kneel, and Hannibal has been trained by the finest. And, finally, well, it’s rather a rhetorical question. Who wouldn’t be nervous a week before they were to be married?

Still, Hannibal hasn’t trained and studied for eighteen years to falter now. He lifts his chin. “No.”

Headmistress Bedelia looks unconvinced. She sips slowly at her wine, eyes trained on Hannibal, as if she is waiting for clarification, or perhaps a retraction. She will wait in vain, of course. The best subs are rarely seen, never mind heard, and so Hannibal was trained to speak quietly, swiftly, and in the smallest amount of words possible. 

After a long moment, she leans back. “Lying is not an appealing quality, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal pointedly does not look at the collapsible baton attached on her belt. All of the Sisters have one on hand, so that any misbehavior – including lying – may be rectified immediately, as opposed to waiting for the sub to be taken to a private room. They are not punishments, of course; they are reminders, for punishments are meant for subs who are so broken it is pointless to offer a reminder. Hannibal has never been served a reminder by Headmistress Bedelia, but he did once endure 50 strikes from a sister; he can’t imagine he would receive a lighter sentence from the headmistress.

“I am not lying,” Hannibal says. He keeps his palms flat on his thighs, his legs straight, his posture perfect, his face bland, preserving the image of a flawless submissive. “I am not nervous.”

Headmistress Bedelia takes another sip of wine. She taps a finger on the arm of her chair. “Hannibal, you have been in the care of St. Mischa’s Orphanage your entire life. You have set foot outside of these walls a total of three times, and two of those times were before you could walk, never mind form memory. And in a week you will be taken from here to be married to a man you have never met yet will control everything about you. It is natural to be nervous.”

“I have been well trained. I have no reason to be nervous.”

“It’s not about reason, Hannibal,” Headmistress Bedelia says. “Reason and emotions are hardly one and the same.”

“A good submissive is a master of their emotions,” Hannibal recites. 

It is one of the rules of being a submissive. Hannibal learned to read, write, and speak based on those rules. By age ten, he could recite every single one of them from memory, both because he had heard them a million times and because to forget or misspeak them would earn him a swift reminder. Now, he breathes those rules, as every submissive trained at St. Mischa’s does.

“And why are they masters?”

“Because our mind, our body, and our emotions belong to our doms. We cannot fully present them with our gifts if we ourselves are not aware and in control of them.”

Headmistress Bedelia laughs lightly. “Well, you were always a good student. Still.” She sets down the glass of wine and leans forward, ever so slightly. “Your memory is unparalleled, but your obedience must be as well. Your dom has viewed your file; he is fully and completely aware of your . . . missteps.”

Hannibal swallows. He had expected as such; no dom is going to accept a sub they know nothing about, and at St. Mischa’s – as in many orphanages – each milestone or failure in a sub’s life is carefully chronicled so that they may be presented as part of the submissive’s record to the dom who wishes to claim them. After all, an orphanage sub comes without breeding or money to recommend them. All they have is their training, and most doms want to know exactly how well that training was received.

It is expected, of course, and allowed that subs have missteps. Subs go through puberty and teenage rebellion like everyone else, and some doms even find the notation of temper tantrums and resistance as proof that the sub has fire and personality. If they’re looking for that kind of sub, anyways. Some doms don’t.

“I served my time in the muzzle well and without flaw,” Hannibal says. “I was the only one of my year who did not need a reminder, or a restart.”

“One of the only in many years,” Headmistress Bedelia agrees. “But defiance and rebellion comes from many places, and not just in spoken words. You did very well in your year of muzzling to maintain that silence, this is undisputed, but you have shown defiance in other areas. You maintain eye contact, you show your teeth, you refuse to eat food you consider beneath you. All of these are behaviors you have displayed.”

“All of these behaviors which I received a reminder about,” Hannibal points out. “And I corrected my behavior.”

“Your behavior, but not the root problem. You are proud, Hannibal.”

“I am proud of my progress on the path.”

“The source of the pride does not matter. What matters that it exists. You are a submissive, Hannibal. Humility is your suit to wear, not pride.”

Hannibal swallows again. She is not lying; doms do not want prideful subs. If Hannibal ever wants to leave St. Mischa’s for the outside world, he must at least appear to be humble, because if he misses this chance, it’s lost for an entire year.

“I understand, Headmistress.” It’s all Hannibal can say in response, really.

Headmistress Bedelia leans forward even more. Hannibal can feel the heat of her stare upon his skin, even as he maintains eye contact with the floor, as is proper. “Do you, Hannibal? Even now I can see pride and defiance in you. This is not what your dom wants. St. Valentine’s Day only comes once a year. If your dom rejects you, you will stay here for another year for retraining.”

Retraining – especially retraining due to a dom’s rejection – is a black mark on a sub’s record. If Hannibal were to be rejected and retrained, his prospects of a good match would decrease considerably. And society has little use for unmatched subs who have no family to support them or money to their name; they either end up in convents, bound to prayer and service; in brothels, imprisoned in tiny rooms for whoever wants to haggle for an hour of their time; or in universities, as participants in studies for whatever scientist wishes to utilize them. 

Hannibal takes a deep breath. He loosens his shoulders, making himself smaller and meeker and, well, humbler. “I will not be rejected. To be chosen and claimed on St. Valentine’s Day is an honor and an opportunity, and I will not waste it.”

He knows Headmistress Bedelia is not satisfied with his answer. To be fair, it’s not a proper answer. St. Valentine’s Day is an honor – an honor for otherwise unremarkable and unconnected subs to be able to be brought into society on the strength of their institute’s name and reputation. It is not meant as an opportunity, for subs are meant to serve and accept what is given, not strive for what is not. 

Yet Hannibal has never accepted this. What is a dom but an opportunity – to be free of this orphanage, to be free of constant rules and scrutiny and reminders, to be free to maybe coax his dom to let him do things he could never do at St. Mischa’s? And, of course, once chosen, a sub need not return if, perchance, their dom were to die. They may stay in society and do as they like, for once upon a time a dom found them acceptable, and that is enough.

Headmistress Bedelia taps her fingers on the arm of her chair, once, twice, thrice. She sighs. “I can see that you are set in your path. I can only hope it is the right one.”

“But of course,” Hannibal says. “You trained me very well.”

“Hmm.”

Headmistress Bedelia stands. Her hand goes to her waist, and Hannibal hears the all too familiar _snick_ of the baton expanding, going from a harmless stick the size of a palm to an instrument of correction and pain long enough to dwarf Hannibal’s arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, because no Sister unveils their baton without using it. Subs, after all, are not threatened. They are corrected, by any means necessary to make the correction stick.

“Let’s see how well that training has sunk into your bones, then,” Headmistress Bedelia says. “How many do you think it will take?”

Hannibal stays silent. It is not his place to offer a number, for he is a sub, and he is to be controlled. The only time he may offer a suggestion is if a dom directly asks for his input by name. 

“At least you can still control your tongue,” Headmistress Bedelia observes. She smacks the baton into her palm. “Hannibal, you are to be reminded of your place. I will not have one unruly submissive sully the good name of St. Mischa’s, even one as promising as you.”

Hannibal stands immediately. His movements have been ingrained over many years, and so his posture is perfect as he removes his pants and stands at attention, waiting for the next command. Most doms prefer that their subs move into a specific presentation for reminders, but Hannibal has never been reminded by the headmistress, so he breathes and waits for her to tell him.

“On the floor,” comes the command. “Knees tucked under, arms folded, head down.”

The first strike comes without warning, and it burns; the Sisters make sure they are in excellent physical condition to deliver reminders, after all. Hannibal breathes through the pain, as he has been taught, and imagines being free of the confining, dark walls of the orphanage.

“One,” Hannibal says. “Thank you, Headmistress.”

“Keep counting.”

By the time it is over, Hannibal’s breathing is shaky and he is sure that his behind is as red as an apple. Yet he recites numbers automatically and without hesitation, and he knows he has maintained a perfect posture. There is no area where Headmistress Bedelia can find fault. 

Headmistress Bedelia sighs. “Well, I am comforted by the fact that your dom will not be able to complain about your ability to take correction. Small comfort, but I will take it.” The baton is closed with a _click_ , and Hannibal hears her take up her glass of wine again and drain the remaining in a few short swallows. “Remain as you are until the dinner bell, Hannibal. I want you to think very, very hard about what will happen when your dom comes to claim you. If you make a mockery of St. Mischa’s, I will make tonight look like a fleeting dream when you undergo retraining. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“Excellent.”

Then she leaves, and Hannibal is left with a burning bottom and a twisting sense of glee in his chest.

One successful interview with the Headmistress, one step closer to freedom.

* * *

Hannibal is still quite sore two days later, but he is not excused from his duties, his studies, or his training. It is said the most intensive weeks of a sub’s life are their first in training and their last before their wedding, because every single movement and word is critiqued. Nothing is above observation or correction. 

Hannibal plays along, though. He excelled at chess, and this is just chess on a grander scale, because Hannibal has a goal to meet and an opponent to checkmate, and he will do it. 

When they announce the Inspection, Hannibal is more than ready.

Sister Chiyoh helps him prepare. He is blindfolded, as is standard, and then brought to the Inspection room, where he strips off all of his clothing and kneels upon the hard floor so that his dom’s proxy may examine him. The dom has the final say, of course, but the proxy – a good friend or family member – has a guiding and important part of that say. If they discover something they believe to be a flaw or something they think the dom won’t like, their words in a dom’s ear can condemn a sub.

“Your Inspection will last thirty minutes; no more, no less,” Sister Chiyoh tells him as she circles his form for one last check. “Perform well, as you have been trained.”

“I will.”

Sister Chiyoh collects his clothing and then departs, and Hannibal is alone.

Every Inspection is different. Sometimes the dom’s proxy will merely look at them from the viewing room and read their file. Other times the proxy will enter the room and examine the sub’s features and obedience. Hannibal has even heard of one Inspection where the proxy took the sub on the floor as a “test drive”. As long as no permanent damage is done and everything is with the consent of the dom, there are no limits, after all.

So Hannibal quiets his mind, and breathes, and waits.

Minutes later, his patience is rewarded with the _click-click_ sound of heels coming closer. The door opens with a creak, and the proxy enters the room. When Hannibal inhales, he smells flowers and honey and freshly washed clothing; a woman, he guesses.

“And how old is the sub?” the woman asks.

Sister Chiyoh answers. “Eighteen.”

“And he has lived in St. Mischa’s all of his life?”

“Yes. He’s been an exemplary student.”

“Hmm. So his file says. Yet I see too that he was reminded for . . . willful disobedience?”

“He refused to eat what was given. At first, it was taken for commitment to the muzzle,” Sister Chiyoh explains. “But it later became clear his objection was to the food’s quality, and his expectation of the quality. He was reminded promptly, and has never displayed that disobedience again.”

“Well, Will doesn’t really cook, so if Hannibal can cook, he should be fine with the food quality,” the woman laughs.

Sister Chiyoh goes off on a tangent to explain Hannibal’s training – he can cook, of course, as well as he can perform all the other duties of a sub – but Hannibal tunes it out. Usually subs are given no information about their dom, because it is their duty to serve and accept what is given, but now Hannibal knows his dom’s name. 

_Will._

The woman and Sister Chiyoh circle Hannibal once, and then twice, with the woman asking questions and Sister Chiyoh answering. And then, just like that, Hannibal hears the distinctive snapping sound of a file being closed.

“I think Hannibal will be well suited to Will,” the woman says. “And St. Mischa’s reputation precedes him.”

“Are you satisfied with the Inspection?”

The woman hums, but does not answer. Hannibal tenses. An Inspection must be verbally acknowledged as satisfactory, or he will fail. And failure means that St. Mischa’s might decide to not take the risk of sending him to a dom and instead send him straight to retraining, in which case Hannibal would spend tonight in the first of a series of brutal correction instead of being carefully prepared for marriage.

“I would like to see his face,” the woman says.

Sister Chiyoh hesitates. It is not standard, but usually, whatever the dom wants, the dom gets. “I assure you, St. Mischa’s does not believe in punishment that leaves lasting marks along the face.”

“That wasn’t my concern. I just want to get a good look at his face. Windows are the eyes to the soul, aren’t they?”

“Ma’am, I don’t – ”

“His dom will be able to see a lot. I need to make sure this sub can handle it.”

Hannibal hears Sister Chiyoh sigh, and then the gentle tap-tap of her feet. He closes his eyes and breathes, and then opens them just in time for Sister Chiyoh to pull off the blindfold. For a long moment, he is blinded by the bright light of the Inspection room, but a few more blinks makes everything come into focus.

His dom’s proxy is a tall and slender woman, dressed in a fetching black gown with a red flower pattern and matching red heels. Her clothing is high quality, as is the purse slung over her shoulder; it bodes well for the caliber of Hannibal’s dom.

Hannibal isn’t quite sure what the woman is looking for, given that he can’t make eye contact, but after a long moment, she appears to find whatever it is she is looking for.

“I am satisfied with the Inspection,” the woman says. “I think he will make Will very happy.”

Sister Chiyoh inclines her head. “That is our greatest hope.”

“Then I suppose we’re all done here.”

Sister Chiyoh and the woman walk away then, still talking, probably about the specifics of the arrangements for the wedding. Hannibal doesn’t try to overhear; he is too busy trying to keep a bland and demure look upon his face.

One successful inspection with the proxy, one step closer to freedom.

* * *

The night before the wedding is very calm. Hannibal spends a few hours on his knees in his room, reciting the rules of submission and the prayer of St. Mischa’s. Then he is quizzed on everything and anything he’s learned, with swift reminders for anything he hesitates on, before they finally let him to sleep.

The morning of the wedding, however, is completely the opposite. Hannibal is bathed and cleaned and scrubbed, every single inch of him, like a child who hasn’t learned to shower. Then he is inspected by the headmistress and the doctor, every part of him carefully examined and measured and noted. Then the Sisters garb him in a simple white shift with a white garter and put white shoes upon his feet before he is blindfolded and led outside to the waiting car, where he sits gingerly at the seat and focuses on maintaining a perfect posture.

At the church, he is led, still blindfolded, to the sub’s room. There the minister inspects him, although aside from a few disapproving clucks over his hairstyle, he is considered suitable.

“It’ll do,” the minister says, scribbling something on a notepad. “Now, the dominant will arrive in two hours, make sure it is still ready by then.”

“Any special preparations?”

Hannibal holds his breath as he waits for the reply. Doms can request special preparations for their sub during the wedding, which can be anything from as simple as wearing specific family colors and crests to as complicated as corsets and harnesses and piercings. The standard, though, is a naked submissive with a garter, leaving all of their possessions behind and presenting themselves with nothing to hide to their dom, accepting their collar as the most important item of clothing.

“No,” answers the minister, to sighs of relief around the room. “Standard presentation. Just make sure to chain it up.”

With that said, the minister leaves. Sister Chiyoh leads Hannibal to the center of the room, where a plush pillow is in front of a ring in the floor. He kneels when she presses down on his shoulder, and then she starts affixing the various chains onto his wrists and ankles. In the old days, it was to stop a sub from running away from a match; nowadays, it’s mostly part of the ceremony, like wearing white. 

The chains are very cold and very heavy, but Hannibal bears them with grace. After all, he once spent an entire night trussed up and suspended in the cold, one of his tests for graduation. 

Sister Chiyoh clicks the final chain on and then rises. “We will leave you alone to contemplate your new life,” she says, as standard, and then the sisters leave and close the door behind them. 

Hannibal closes his eyes and dreams.

* * *

Hannibal hears the guests long before the sisters come to get him for the ceremony. The murmurs in the chapel start off small and low level, like faint chitters at the break of dawn, but slowly and surely more and more people come inside until the chatter fills the air. A thunderous roar of applause marks the arrival of Hannibal’s new dominant, and although it would be impossible to hear, Hannibal thinks he can pick out the soft footsteps of his dominant walking towards the minister and shaking hands and thanking people.

Abruptly, though, there is silence, as if everyone had gone mute. The minister starting the ceremony, asking St. Valentine to bless the union. 

The sisters come for him then. Sister Chiyoh unlocks all of the chains and helps him to his feet, removing his shoes, and then Headmistress Bedelia comes with scissors to cut off his clothing, leaving him bare but for the garter and ready for the ceremony.

“Do your duty,” she says, warning and encouragement both. “And make sure St. Mischa’s is well represented.”

Hannibal nods, just once, and then follows as he is led out of the room.

The chapel isn’t that big. The decorations are lovely and tasteful, but not ostentatious, and the carpet upon the floor ensures that Hannibal doesn’t shiver on his way into the chapel. And then, after only five minutes, they are on the main floor, with the doors only a few steps away that will lead to Hannibal’s new life.

The Sisters peel away. Even the Headmistress stops.

A submissive must walk to a dom of their own accord. They must choose their new life, accepting it with open arms and open hearts, and walk inside with their head upright. To have anyone else at his back, prodding and poking, would be seen as deceptive.

It’s a lot of pressure, but Hannibal trained for eighteen years for this very day. He just takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and walks forward.

His first impression is that the chapel is only half full. It isn’t a bad thing at all, but it does mean that his dom doesn’t have an overflowing circle of acquaintances he feels comfortable or wants or invite to his wedding, which suits Hannibal just fine. His second impression is that the carpet in the chapel is thin and patchy and worn, a testament to the many, many subs who have walked down this aisle to their dom. His third impression is of the collar resting neatly on the cushion held in the proxy’s hands; it is simple and plain, a wide leather band with a buckle at the back, but no degrading nametag or ostentatious decoration.

Then, at last, his eyes meet his dom’s, and Hannibal feels like the bottom has fallen out of his stomach, because his dominant is _handsome_.

He is wearing nice clothes, to be sure – a pressed and tailored tuxedo, shoes shined to a polish, boutonniere of red and blue flowers pinned to his lapel – but Hannibal spent long hours honing his artistic skills, and he knows a beautiful face when he sees one. He has a head of curls, artfully styled to tumble around his face, and eyes with laugh lines and a smile that only widens when he catches sight of Hannibal. He radiates joy and appreciation, which is rather flattering, but there is a predator’s stillness to him too; only someone who has learned how to hunt and to fight can stand with that kind of casual confidence. 

All in all, as much as Hannibal could have asked for in the man who will own him by the end of the ceremony. 

Then Hannibal realizes that his dom is no longer smiling; in fact, his dom looks rather concerned, and it takes his dominant stepping forward for Hannibal to realize that it is not just the bottom of his stomach falling out – it is his torso and his arms and his legs, and well, all of him, because his foot has caught on the aged carpet, and his entire body is tipping towards the ground.

 _Oh, no,_ Hannibal thinks, and then he hits the floor.

If it had been quiet before, while Hannibal walked down the aisle, now it is dead silent, as if Hannibal has lost not only his dignity with his face plant but also his hearing. A thousand thoughts rush through his mind – plans now abruptly derailed, the threat of Headmistress Bedelia, the black mark upon his record – and Hannibal finds himself paralyzed, unable to push himself back up for fear of what he will see, eighteen years of training and planning vanishing in a second misstep.

Sound rings out, and Hannibal squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for the burn of the Headmistress’s baton.

Yet no pain comes, no crack and burn, and after a moment, the sound registers to Hannibal’s ears as not furious lectures or angry reminders or even disapproving chatter – it is _laughter_. Hannibal’s dominant is _laughing_.

Hannibal lifts his head up, centimeter by centimeter, only to see his dominant wiping at his eyes, still laughing.

“Well, I suppose that’ll make our wedding memorable,” his dominant says, and his voice is rich and deep, falling over Hannibal like fingers on harp strings. “I suppose sometimes the dom must come to the sub, rather than the reverse.”

And with that, Hannibal’s dominant takes steps down from the altar and walks down the aisle towards Hannibal, until his dom stands proud and tall before him.

“Hannibal, isn’t it?” his dom asks, eyes still twinkling with laughter.

Hannibal shivers and swallows and struggles to find his voice. He’d been warned, of course, that a dominant using their voice upon a submissive is like nothing that can be described, but in some ways he had not believed. Now he knows, because for all of his plans, at just the mere shape of his name in his dom’s mouth, Hannibal wants to throw himself upon his dom’s feet and beg.

“Y – Yes, Master,” Hannibal whispers. 

“None of that, now,” his dom chides. He holds out a hand, revealing fingers callused from work and palms roughened by life. “I am not your master yet. Come, up on your feet.”

Hannibal takes the hand, shivering anew at the feel of his skin against his dom’s calluses, and lets himself be pulled to his feet. His dom is strong, because he takes on Hannibal’s weight without flinching, but his hand is gentle too, and the other even touches lightly against his back to balance him.

“We’re almost to the end,” his dom says, as if they’re going through a casual stroll in private instead of being the focus of dozens of eyes. “Can you walk with me?”

Hannibal responds by putting one foot in front of the other, because if his dom is going to give him a second chance, like hell is he going to waste it. He walks, concentrating on making each step perfectly placed so that he will not fall again, focused on the floor where his feet meet carpet and on his waist where his dom keeps one warm hand heavy against his spine. He focuses so hard, in fact, that he is climbing the stairs before he realizes it, and he ends up stopping and not walking straight into the minister only because his dom comes to a halt.

“Now, then,” his dom says cheerfully, “let’s try this again, shall we? Minister?”

The minister gapes at them with poorly disguised surprise. Clearly he expected Hannibal’s dom to flounce off and for Hannibal to be carted away in shame, or perhaps punished right then and there on the floor for all to see. But with his dom’s hand upon him, Hannibal knows that no one will dare to touch him, lest his dom take offense. 

“Minister,” his dom prompts, humor leaking away to reveal wrought steel underneath. “We don’t have all day.”

“Ah, um, oh, yes,” the minister stammers. “I – er – can it kneel?” 

“I am sure he can,” his dom answers mildly. He turns to Hannibal, just slightly, and moves his hand from Hannibal’s waist to his shoulder. “Kneel for me, darling?”

He applies just the slightest pressure as he speaks, and Hannibal’s knees buckle and fold until he’s on the ground again, this time on purpose, comforted by the steady grasp of his dom’s hand upon his shoulder. At least muscle memory holds and he retains a properly straight posture, otherwise he might have folded into a puddle against his dom’s leg.

The minister, perhaps sensing that his dominant should not be pushed anymore, clears his throat and begins. 

“Dearly beloved,” he drones, “we are gathered together here in the sight of Saint Valentine, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Dominant and this Submissive in holy Matrimony, which is an honorable estate, and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of Saint Mischa. Into this holy estate, these two persons present come now to be joined. If any man or woman can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let them now speak, or else hereafter forever hold their peace.”

Hannibal is half-afraid that Headmistress Bedelia or one of the Sisters will object, will tear him away from his dominant and drag him back to St. Mischa’s Orphanage to be punished, but his dom rubs his thumb soothingly over Hannibal’s shoulder, and after a few moments of silence, the minister continues. 

“In that case, we may begin the vows.”

His dom presses lightly against his shoulder and then takes his hand away; Hannibal obeys the push and shuffles to reorient himself, so that he faces his dom for the most important part of the ceremony, the moment he’s been dreaming of and worked towards and trained for all of his life, the claim that will set him free forever. 

His dominant takes the leather collar in his hands and begins his vow. “I, William Graham,” his dominant says, voice ringing throughout the chapel, “take you, Hannibal, to be my submissive, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, in clumsiness and in perfection, to love and to cherish, till death us do part. In the presence of Saint Mischa, I make this vow.”

Under normal circumstances, Hannibal might have been more distracted by the last minute addition his dominant slipped in, but he’s too distracted by the feeling of his dom slipping the collar around his neck. The pressure soothes an itch he didn’t even know he had as his dom tightens it, and the sound of the buckle clicking into place is music to rival any orchestra or chorus.

His dom’s hands linger on the buckle, as if he too is still a bit stunned at this action, but after a moment he brings them forward, tracing along Hannibal’s cheeks. 

“Beautiful,” his dominant whispers, eyes full of emotion, “absolutely stunning.” He pauses, and then a mischievous light enters his eyes. “Now, you may call me master.”

His dominant lowers himself to kneel down, and Hannibal stands. The submissive has their own set of vows, although they are mostly for show; Hannibal belonged to Will the second he finished his vows and clicked the collar round Hannibal’s neck. Legally, of course, there will be a few papers to sign, but no one can interfere now, and even if Hannibal wanted to escape, the collar would make that attempt doomed from the start.

“I, Hannibal, take you, Master, to be my dominant, to honor and obey from this day forward, till death us do part. In the presence of Saint Mischa, I make this vow.”

Gentle hands encircle Hannibal’s thighs, and Hannibal tries his very best to stay still as his dom’s warm breath washes over his waist. It should not be a struggle – Hannibal once endured a three months where his tolerance to stimulation was measured and increased – but he still holds his breath, because his dominant has already shown that his mere voice can accomplish what took years of training by the Sisters. 

Fortunately, Hannibal does not cause a scene by becoming unduly aroused, mostly because his dominant quickly moves to the garter wrapped round his leg. He nearly yelps when teeth close around his skin, but his dom merely huffs a soft laughter and then moves on, pulling the garter down with a wink. Once it reaches the bottom, his dom removes it and leaves it on the floor, so that all Hannibal has upon his body belongs to his dom, as is proper.

Hannibal’s dom stands, and the minister continues, much more smoothly now that everything is running as it should be.

“I now pronounce you married,” he announces joyfully. “You may kiss!”

Hannibal looks to his dom, half cringing and half intrigued, because his dominant sets the standard for what happens now, as he will for everything in Hannibal’s life. Sometimes, the dominant takes the “kiss” to mean palm to buttocks, and some subs are introduced to married life with a spanking. Hannibal has even heard of one where the dominant had the sub suck them off as their first kiss. 

But Hannibal’s dominant just smiles, and cups Hannibal’s face, and brings their lips together for Hannibal’s first ever kiss, and it is everything he never dared to dream for.

And just like that, the ceremony is over.

* * *

The wedding feast is mercifully short, only a few short hours where Hannibal kneels at his dom’s side and dozes with his head resting in his dom’s lap. His dom keeps one hand in his hair, occasionally stroking or scritching but mostly just reassuringly there, warm and heavy, and sometimes his other hand ventures down to slip tasty morsels of meat and sweets in Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal takes it all, drowsy with contentment and relief, and he doesn’t even realize that Headmistress Bedelia has come up to speak with his dom until his name comes up.

“ – Hannibal is . . . quite spirited,” Headmistress Bedelia is saying, voice tinged with the slightest flavor of disapproval.

“I don’t mind spirit,” Hannibal’s dom replies. “I don’t want a doormat.”

“Yes, but . . . well. Sometimes his dreams were not aligned with his obedience.”

His dom shrugs, a whisper of cloth against cloth. He seems unconcerned, although that might be due to the shots he was doing earlier at the behest of his coworkers. “He is obedient enough for me, I think. And his record spoke volumes.”

“He was indeed a stellar student.”

“Then I am not sure what your point is,” his dom says, the slightest edge entering his tone. “I paid the price for Hannibal – a handsome one for a sub without breeding or money – and I have signed the papers. He belongs to me now. If there is any further training or correction to be made, I will take them. It is my right, but more importantly, my duty. Do you disagree?”

“No. But we both know submission goes deeper than that.”

Hannibal’s dom leans back in the chair. His hand leaves Hannibal’s head, and Hannibal has to stop himself from whining at the loss. He barely manages to keep himself still and not arch upwards for more contact. 

“Ah, yes,” his dom says, sounding amused, like a lion with a fully belly regarding an antelope just out of lunging distance but well within running. “The age old test of submission. Will he daily feel a stab of hunger for me, and find nourishment at the very sight of me? To be honest, Headmistress, I don’t know. I am sure we will find out, though. Won’t we, Hannibal?”

The answer leaves Hannibal without his conscious permission: “Yes, Master.”

Satisfaction rolls thick off of his dominant at the words; he puts his hand back upon Hannibal’s head and resumes petting, his body relaxing even more where Hannibal has made a pillow of him. 

“Well then,” his dom tells Headmistress Bedelia, “I think that’s settled, is it not?”

It’s not a question, and Headmistress Bedelia knows it. She murmurs something – either an apology or a congratulations, Hannibal cannot hear and does not care – and then departs, leaving Hannibal’s dom to drink deeply of his whiskey.

“And that’s her gone,” his dom muses. “I’m sure she thinks I’m just a reckless, twitchy man who bit off more than I could chew. But we can make it work, can’t we, my dear? I’ve already seen you kneel, after all, and you’ve taken my commands beautifully. All that is left is to see you come for me.”

A spark ignites in Hannibal’s belly. He shifts, ever so slightly, hoping that his training holds. “Now, Master?”

“On my voice alone?” His dom laughs. “I’m flattered. But I don’t think we are there just yet. Settle down, my dear. Rest assured, when I want you to come for me, you will know.”

“Tonight, then?”

“You will know,” his dom repeats, and then he taps Hannibal on the lips. “Now, hush. I have many more congratulations to accept before this party is over.”

* * *

They leave in a sparkling white limo, with onlookers cheering and tossing rice. His dom ushers him into the car, but when Hannibal goes to kneel, his dom pulls him into the seat beside him. He then unfolds a thick, warm blanket and wraps it around Hannibal, so Hannibal accepts it and slides down until his head rests in his dom’s lap again.

He dozes throughout the car ride as his dom pets him absentmindedly with one hand and taps away at his phone with the other, until at last the car comes to a smooth stop and their driver opens the door.

Upon getting out, Hannibal can’t quite contain his surprise. Certainly, he knew his dom wasn’t poor – the down payment for a chapel on St. Valentine’s Day and a wedding feast is quite sizeable – but the hotel they are now outside of is top of line and very expensive. He can tell as much from the intricate font gracing the arching entryway and the sharply dressed porters standing at attention outside the door.

“Yeah, it’s a lot,” his dom confesses as he urges Hannibal inside. “But I figured hey, why not. Besides, I think you’ll like the amenities.”

The hotel staff don’t even bat an eye at Hannibal, wearing nothing but a collar and a blanket, but they also don’t register his presence at all. They speak entirely to his dom, as though Hannibal is a dog, so Hannibal occupies himself with glancing discretely around the foyer, noting entrances and exits.

His dom hands over a shiny card and then receives a keycard in return. He thanks the receptionist and then tugs Hannibal to the elevators.

The elevators covered in floor to ceiling in mirrors.

Hannibal stares at himself – red-cheeked, windswept, bare feet and arms, throat encased in brown leather – and keeps on staring, because there were hardly many mirrors at St. Mischa’s and the few times he did catch sight of himself, he was fully clothed, as all unclaimed submissives are to be demure and humble in attire. If he had ever worn only a blanket in St. Mischa’s, he would have been swiftly reminded of the proper attire of a sub.

His dom reaches up and takes ahold of the back of his collar. The pressure against Hannibal’s throat makes his knees buckle, which makes his dom smile.

“We’re almost to our room,” he says, voice pitched low and deep. “But I don’t fault you for admiring yourself. You look entirely edible.”

“Master, I – ”

“Ah, here we are,” his dom interrupts. The doors swing open with a gentle chime, revealing a short hallway with exactly two doors. Hannibal looks up and down as his dom walks over to swipe his keycard, which is when he realizes there is only one room on the entire floor. 

His dom rented the _penthouse_.

The suite inside is even more luxurious than the outside suggested. There is a balcony, shielded from the weather and large enough for a party in and of itself. There is a hot tub big enough for ten people to bathe, never mind two. The bed is bigger than Hannibal’s entire room back in St. Mischa’s, and scattered with rose petals and gold-wrapped chocolates. A wine bottle rests in an ice bucket on the bedside table, and wrapped neatly around the base are a series of delicate looking golden chains.

His dom must catch him looking, because in the next moment, he comes up behind Hannibal and gives him a light push. 

“Go on, explore,” his dom says encouragingly. “This will be our home for the next week or two, so you might as well get familiar with it. You’ll definitely be responsible for cooking, so go check out the kitchen and see if it’s adequate or if I need to order anything.” Then he pauses, and very casually concludes, “Drop the blanket. You needn’t wear any clothes while we’re here.”

Hannibal releases the blanket obediently, shivering a little at the way his dom very pointedly looks up and down his form with a smirk, but at the second nudge from his dom he sets off to explore.

It turns out that there are two bedrooms, in fact; one with a sweeping view of the garden and pool this hotel apparently has, and a smaller one with a small cot and a door that only locks from the outside. Hannibal doesn’t really need to guess the intention of the smaller one, so he moves on. There is a study, complete with a desk and a sleek computer; a small workout room, with a mounted TV and gym equipment; the kitchen, stocked to the brim with both appliances and every food item Hannibal might want to cook; and finally a room that does not open when Hannibal pulls on it. When he leans closer, he realizes that it has a keycard slot by the door, so he leaves it alone.

When he returns to the bedroom, his dom is examining the wine, squinting at the fine print on the label.

“The kitchen will do fine,” Hannibal ventures quietly.

“Good; I certainly paid a big enough price,” his dom says, sounding a tad distracted. “This is a good vintage – have you ever had wine, Hannibal?”

“No, Master.”

“Hmm. Would you like to try?”

Hannibal can cook an eight course feast, with everything from sumptuous breakfasts to rich dinner to delicate desserts. Yet he has never tasted that kind of rich food before; subs are to be content with plain bread and water, with sometimes a small helping of meat or vegetables or fruit, especially at the orphanage where the budget is not extravagant. Hannibal eyes the wine; he is tempted, but not quite sure he wishes to let his senses be dulled.

His dom notices his hesitation. “Maybe not, then. A clear head would probably be best for our discussion.”

“Yes, Master.”

His dom puts down the wine bottle and nods at the bed. “All right, sit down. We have a lot to discuss, I think.” He pauses, and then says dryly, “Feel free to sweep off the petals and chocolates, I doubt we want to be sleeping in that.”

Hannibal doesn’t object to that, so he goes and tidies the bed, removing the extraneous pillows and gathering up the dozens of soft rose petals and chocolate candies. He leaves them in neat piles on the other bedside table alongside the telephone, television menu, and hotel notepads. When he turns around to sit, he finds that his dom has stripped off his tuxedo jacket and tie, leaving him in a now slightly wrinkled white shirt that he efficiently rolls the sleeves up for. By the time his dom sits down on the opposite side the bed, Hannibal has had to swallow twice and carefully cross his legs to hide his burgeoning arousal.

“Now then,” his dominant says cheerfully, “I suppose the Sisters wouldn’t think to go over this bit, so just to make sure we are on the same page: now is the time where you and I are going to discuss what we want out of this relationship and how we’re going to make it work. Let’s start with you?”

Hannibal blinks. “Master?” All of his life he has been trained that it is the dominant who sets the rules and the sub who abides; he can’t imagine why he would start.

“Go on.”

“I am here to serve you. That is what I want.”

His dom laughs; not cruelly, but there is something dark in it, like his dom has a secret he hasn’t yet shared. “Oh, Hannibal, I am sure you want much more than that. The submissive who tore out the throat of a man with his own teeth surely wants more in life than to kneel at my feet and service my lust.”

Hannibal freezes. His heartbeat ratchets up, even though he is carefully to keep it off his face. On one hand, lying earns a steep reminder, but Sister Chiyoh promised him no one would ever know. “I don’t understand, Master,” he says, the only neutral middle ground he can reach for.

“Perhaps you don’t. I work for the FBI, Hannibal; it’s my job to profile and catch killers. And you most certainly killed that man. I know, I know; the record was sealed and wiped in defense of St. Mischa’s reputation, but there _was_ an investigation. After all,” his dom says casually, “we had to know if it was a dominance fight between two doms, because no dom with that kind of shoddy control should be training submissives. And imagine my surprise when I took a closer look and realized the murder weapon was a submissive’s teeth. How long did they muzzle you?”

“ . . . Two years.”

“And the standard is one year, to learn silence as is the proper submissive’s place,” his dom remarks. “Why did you attack, Hannibal?”

Hannibal bears his teeth without thinking. He’d bared them at Clark Ingram too, a warning and a dare, and when Ingram had still tried to intrude into his bedroom, he’d torn out the man’s throat and gladly served the extra time in the muzzle and the many, many punishments he’d endured under the baton and whip. 

“He was being rude,” Hannibal says simply. “Just like you are being.” 

His dom tilts his head, a small smile on his face. “Are you going to tear out my throat too, Hannibal?”

“It’s illegal for a submissive to attack or kill a dominant, even a married one.”

“Yes, it is. But if the dom dies suddenly, that submissive is still part of society and still free to do whatever they want. They don’t need to return to an orphanage or enter a convent. Is that what you planned, Hannibal?”

Hannibal shrugs. Or rather, he disguises tensing his shoulders in preparation to strike as a shrug. If his dom is truly an FBI agent, Hannibal will need all the advantages he can get.

His dom spreads his arms wide, baring his chest. He even lifts his chin so that Hannibal has a clear shot to his throat. Everything about him screams vulnerability – his wrinkled thin white shirt, his open collar, his lax posture. If Hannibal didn’t know better, he would mistake him for nothing more than a schoolboy challenging Hannibal to a game of chess without knowing the rules.

“Well, then,” his dom says, “go on. Attack me. Let’s see what you’re made out of.”

His dom has barely finished speaking before Hannibal lunges forward, because he isn’t stupid enough to let an opportunity pass. He bares his teeth and focuses on his dom’s pale stretch of neck, already imagining the rush of hot blood and the choked death rattles of the man who thought he could control Hannibal – 

And then his dom’s arms are suddenly in the way, knocking Hannibal’s to the side and causing Hannibal’s mouth to fall upon his shirt instead of his neck. When Hannibal snarls and whips his head up, his dom retreats, using Hannibal’s momentum to spin him to the side and slam him into the bed. His dom puts his full body weight down, squeezing the air from Hannibal’s chest, and then chains rattle overhead until Hannibal chokes on the pressure of his collar, now secured to the headboard.

His dom tsks, not even out of breath. “That’s it? So disappointing.”

Hannibal rolls instead of answering, dipping his shoulder to displace his dom and shaking him off. Unfortunately, his dom is not deterred; he seizes Hannibal’s wrists next and kneels upon his stomach, only releasing him when cold metal clicks around Hannibal’s wrists. As a last resort, Hannibal kicks out, and he hears a gratifying startled wheeze out of his dom, but then his dom grasps his flailing ankle and yanks down hard, and when Hannibal chokes as his collar is pulled on the chain, his dom uses the opportunity to click the last chains around his legs.

And then it’s over, and Hannibal is chained collar and ankles and wrists to the headboard as his dom efficiently pulls the remainder of the chains in so that Hannibal is curled at the top of the bed and locked neatly into place, unable to do much more than heave for breath.

“You have ferocity, I’ll give you that,” his dom says over the thunder of Hannibal’s heart. “Ferocity and determination. But you really should be more careful when you see a lure, especially if you’ve already swallowed it. Although in your defense,” he says, patting at Hannibal’s thigh, “I’ve trained my entire life to learn how to make someone take the bait when they already know the hook exists.”

Hannibal strains against the chains, but they hold fast; the ring is embedded deep in the headboard, and the lock is brand new and shiny. He isn’t getting out until or unless his dom releases him.

He goes still when his dom reaches out and deliberately places a hand between his legs.

“Stop struggling,” his dom commands. “I ordered that ring for the chains specially; it can hold up to 500 pounds. The only way you’re getting out is if I let you out, and it requires both a fingerprint.”

“Then I just need your hand,” Hannibal snaps. “And teeth can break bone.”

His dom taps a finger, once, twice. “It certainly can. But, my dear, that lock requires a key code as well, and you can’t get that out of me.”

“Then what do you want?”

His dom smiles and strokes him, just once, and his eyes light up when Hannibal shivers. “I don’t quite think you’re in a position to be the one asking the questions, Hannibal,” he says mildly. “After all, you do know the punishment for a submissive who attacks a dominant can be . . . quite severe, don’t you?”

Hannibal swallows at that. He’s seen the results for a submissive who attacks a dominant. It doesn’t happen that often, because the penalties can be so severe, but the last time it happened, when a sub pushed their dom down the stairs, the Headmistress made all the subs attend the public punishment.

It was a long six hours, kneeling in perfect posture as the sub screamed, but it had been very effective as a warning.

“Are you going to order me castrated?” Hannibal asks, fighting to keep his voice calm. He could survive it, of course, but it wouldn’t be ideal, if only because he’d likely be on a drug regimen afterwards to keep him docile.

His dom tilts his head, looking thoughtful. “I could,” he replies. He shifts, crossing his legs, and begins to stroke Hannibal from tip to root, steady as a metronome. “You don’t really need this, do you? After all, you were bound to me for my pleasure, and if I decide I would like a nice pounding from my submissive, I could very easily get you a strap on. Or just get myself a machine, honestly. Some submissives never come their entire lives, you know; their doms castrate them or cage them forever, and take pleasure from their holes.”

Sparking pleasure rises in Hannibal’s stomach, bubbling up like lava. He tries to maintain his breathing, but it’s hard, because the most he’s ever been touched has been impersonal and cold examinations by doctors. No one has ever done this, this casual conquering of his senses where he is defenseless and unable to get away, and from his dominant no less, the person he’s been trained his whole life to answer to.

“Could you find pleasure in that, Hannibal? In servicing me but never coming? I mean, you don’t really have a choice if I decide otherwise, but I am curious.” His tone shifts and his hand tightens, moving faster. “Answer me in words, Hannibal.”

Hannibal has to swallow twice before he can muster his voice. “I was – I trained – I – ” he tries, before giving up and just whining pitifully for mercy.

“Lost already,” his dom laughs. “Although I shouldn’t be surprised, I was promised an untouched virgin. This is the closest you’ve ever come, isn’t it? Of course it is; look at how your heart races, like a rabbit before a fox. Absolutely exquisite.”

And then just like that – just as Hannibal is about to tip over the precipice and dive straight into the heart of the volcano, lava be damned – the warmth of his dom’s hand vanishes.

Hannibal bucks before he can stop himself, rattling the chains and hitting the headboard hard enough that pain blooms in his fists and head. He thrusts fruitlessly into the thin air, but his orgasm is already fading away, the fire diminishing into distant sparks without oxygen to feed its growth. Hannibal is left panting and shivering and desperate, and he doesn’t even realize that tears have started to fall until his dom’s fingers wipe them away.

“Hush, now,” his dom soothes. “Breathe for me. That’s it.”

Color and sound return to Hannibal’s world; he blinks away the remaining tears as his sanity reasserts itself. Heat builds in his cheeks as he stares at his wilting erection, but the heat of shame; eighteen years of planning and training, and yet he’d fallen over like a newborn lamb at the merest touch of his dom.

“You do have a fine specimen,” his dom says, voice completely businesslike. “I’ll let you keep it, and I’ll think of something else to serve as your punishment. And in the meantime, you still owe me answers. If not, well. If you won’t answer me, you don’t need a voice, do you?”

Time for Plan C, then. Hannibal curls inward as much as his chains allow; he doesn’t even need to play at being scared or meek, not after such a demonstration of the imbalance of power between them. “No, Master.”

“We’re back to that, are we. Hmm. Save ‘master’ for when you really want something, Hannibal. Just call me Will. Or Sir. Understood?”

“Yes, Master.”

His dom lets that pass without comment. “Now, then. What do you want? Because the sub willing to cover up killing their dominant is the kind of sub with a plan.”

Hannibal wants so many things, of course. To travel the world without being at the beck and call of a master. To walk down the street without needing to present proof of his dom’s approval. To be able to sit in a chair and stare a dominant in the eye. But all of those dreams are the kind that might earn Hannibal a castration after all, so he settles for a lesser dream. “I wanted – I thought about maybe. If I could. Taking classes?”

“Classes for?”

“Medical school,” he breathes, as if a great secret, burying his greater wants in a lesser desire. 

His dom hums, but his eyes are fixed upon Hannibal the same way a hawk stares down a mouse. Hannibal gets the sensation of being cataloged and picked apart, and not the way doctors did when they noted imperfections in his skin or posture – the way scientists do, when they pick apart bone and muscle.

Therefore, Hannibal is not surprised when his dom finally says, “But you don’t want to treat patients, do you? You want to learn, to have that knowledge so you can wield it like a scalpel. To be above the common dominant.”

“I want to help people.”

“Ah, but help them to do what? Heal? No, I don’t think so. You want to see what happens when you play around with blood and mind. You want to help them transform and reign chaos, so that you may do whatever you like when all the eyes are focused elsewhere. Clever boy. Alright, so school. What else?”

“Master?”

“Sir,” his dom corrects swiftly. “Or Will. What else do you want, Hannibal?”

“I don’t – ”

“Answer truthfully, or never speak again. I can have a doctor here in less than twelve hours to take out your voice box, Hannibal, and I might decide he can take more while he’s at it.”

“To travel,” Hannibal says. “To see. To learn. I want to be _free_.”

His dom’s eyes soften. “Finally, we get to the truth,” he says. “Good boy. I think that deserves a reward, doesn’t it?”

“If you say so, Ma – Sir.”

“I do say so. Communication is very important to a good relationship, Hannibal. And I do want to have a good relationship with you. And do you know why?”

His dom’s hand snakes between his legs again and begins to stroke, at first slow and careful, but soon resuming the speed that drove Hannibal to the precipice before. He squirms, unable to stop himself, and his dom leans close so that he can whisper into Hannibal’s ear, voice dark and deep and everything that Hannibal fears.

“Because, my dear, I want you to look at me and yield because you want to, and not because you are in fear of punishment. I want you to kneel at my feet and find that doing so makes you happier than anything else in the world. I want you to take everything I offer and give me everything I ask for, and for that to be all you want in the world. I want you to come for me, right now, just because I want you to.”

“Master – ”

“Come for me, Hannibal. Be a good submissive, and _come for me_.”

And Hannibal, for the first time in life, hurtles straight over the edge. He’s sure that he cries out and thrashes, but he is immune to it all, knowing nothing but the high of the fall as pleasure courses through his system. 

When he comes back to himself, minutes or hours later, the chains are gone. He hasn’t changed from his fetal position, but now his dominant’s reassuring warmth surrounds him, cradling him like a mother soothes a child. His dom’s hands dole out comfort now, instead of pleasure or pain, and when Hannibal makes a meaningless noise, his dominant kisses his forehead and shushes him.

“Well done, Hannibal,” his dom says, voice ringing with appreciation. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? I knew you’d be perfect for me from the second I saw you, and you’ve done beautifully.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Hannibal asks, unable to keep the plaintive edge out of his voice. He’d known what to expect from the Sisters, from the doctors, from his teachers; if his dominant has proven anything in the short hours Hannibal has known him, it’s that he can’t predict him. “What do you want?”

“I already told you what I want,” his dom says patiently. “I want you to be happy, and to take pleasure in your submission to me, and to be the perfect submissive that I glimpsed when I first saw you in the orphanage. If you are perfect for me, I will give you everything you want.”

“Then I’ll be perfect,” Hannibal vows, because even if he just gets a few classes, it’ll be more than he dreamed possible. “I swear it.”

“Oh, yes,” his dom murmurs. “Oh yes you will.”

* * *

**Epilogue**

Socializing is not Will’s forte, mostly because his gift makes it hard to handle all the kissing up he endures when he walks around among people who know he’s an FBI agent, but he’s had ages to learn which events are necessary and which are not, and Hannibal’s graduation definitely counts among the former. So he sighs and gets out of the car and walks up the staircase, pasting a bland smile as he signs in and slinks into the massive reception hall.

Nothing but the best for John Hopkins University School of Medicine, after all.

He grabs a drink of the first serving tray he sees, not out of a genuine desire to get drunk, but just to have something to do that isn’t repeating the same things over and over when nosy people ask questions.

He’s on his third rendition of “No comment” about the killer who’s been growing beehives in people’s skulls when, quite thankfully, he is rescued by Alana. 

“I’m so glad you agreed to come,” he tells her fervently as she slides her elbow into his arm and walks him away. 

She laughs and pats his arm. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world! It’s not every that a submissive graduates from medical school. And the first submissive in the country too.”

“Hannibal is unique,” Will says, and he can’t contain the pride in his voice. 

“So are you. Most dominants wouldn’t have dreamed of allowing it.”

Will shrugs. “Hannibal wanted it, and who was I to deny him? He has done everything I asked for and more, and all he wanted was to go to school. Such a small request, really.” He drops his voice and leans in close. “Besides, sometimes he really needed an outlet for his energy.”

Alana gasps, all ladylike, as if in shock, but her eyes are sparkling with humor. She’s seen Hannibal all riled up before, so she’s well aware of just how high maintenance he can be. Will’s honestly lost count of the times she’s come into his office for a consultation and Hannibal – instead of dutifully kneeling at his side or curled under his desk – has been either tied up or in the middle of being spanked. 

“We are in public, Will Graham,” she scolds. 

“And my sub has an exhibitionist streak.”

“True.” Her mirth fades, settling into a softer, brighter smile. “But in all seriousness, I’m glad for you, Will. You really seem happy with him. And him with you.”

“I got lucky,” Will says simply, because what else can he say? How else can express the depth of his appreciation for being blessed with such a perfect submissive, eager and reluctant in equal terms and with a spine of iron that bends only when Will commands as such? “I got very, very lucky.”

Fortunately, he’s spared any further discussion when the doors open and they’re allowed in. The stage is beautifully decorated with flowers and lights, and an enormous screen captures the scene on stage for those sitting far away. Will and Alana slip into their seats, near the front, because even though it was Hannibal’s own grit that got him through medical school in record time, the school still likes to lavish praise upon Will as his dominant, especially when they boast of being the only school to accept a submissive.

The expected long and boring speeches follow, broken up by applause and the occasional buzz of Will’s phone in his pocket. He doesn’t look, of course; that would be rude, and besides, he knows exactly who is texting him.

Finally, the door are flung open to allow entrance to the graduates, and everyone turns and stands and claps as they stride in, all smiles and dressed in sleek black gowns. Will’s eyes, of course, go to the one graduate who bears a leather collar around his throat, and Hannibal smirks him as he marches past.

“Will . . .” Alana says slowly. “Is Hannibal – ”

“Oh look, it’s beginning,” Will interrupts hastily, pulling her back down into her seat. “Come on, let’s sit so everyone can see.”

He probably deserves the smack in the arm she gives him, but she does stop talking, which is what Will really wants. After all, he doesn’t want to disrupt the ceremony, but if Alana keeps on talking, she might be overhead and then Will might have no choice but to interrupt the ceremony – and deal with all the overeager voyeurs who might call out lewd suggestions. But Will likes keeping Hannibal to himself, and so he deliberately puts his eyes to the stage and avoids Alana’s knowing gaze.

The graduates file up to the stage one by one, beaming with heads held high, and polite pauses are given after each letter of the alphabet so that proud families can applaud and take pictures and yell congratulations. 

And then, finally, it’s Hannibal’s turn.

Hannibal ascends as gracefully as he does anything, thanks to the dancing lessons Will agreed to after a marathon session that left Hannibal begging in raw animal sounds, too broken for words as he squirmed under the relentless torment of Will’s favorite massager. He seems unbothered by the fact that he is the only submissive on stage, shaking hands and smiling perfectly as he moves down the line to accept his diploma. Appreciative murmurs rise through the crowd, which makes smugness rise in Will, because he found and collared Hannibal before any of them, and Hannibal is his.

“Down, boy,” Alana whispers. “You’re showing off your teeth.”

“I can’t help it if Hannibal is perfect.”

“And yours, we all know.”

Will looks around, seeing the curiosity and envy and lust on people’s faces as Hannibal’s collar gleams under the bright lights. The rush of power is intoxicating; he wonders if this is how Hannibal felt when he tore out Ingram’s throat so long ago, the murder that brought them together. 

“Yes,” Will says. “He’s all mine.”

* * *

After the ceremony is done, Hannibal comes to find him, his diploma in one hand and his graduation cap – simply bearing the initials _WG_ on top – in the other. He even waits meekly for Will to acknowledge him, eyes focused on the ground and expression bland as unseasoned meat. Will does not, of course, but he does put his hand in his pocket, just to see the faint shudder that jolts through Hannibal.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” Will says after ten minutes of letting Hannibal sweat it out. He pulls Hannibal against him, delighting in how Hannibal presses close, eager as always to be near Will. “Congratulations.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Hannibal says sweetly, peering up from beneath his eyelashes. “Thank you, Sir.”

The dean looks at Hannibal with frank approval. He’s happily bound to his own submissive, a rather sharp tongued woman who runs the household with the precision of a military commander. It’s probably why he believed in Hannibal. 

“You’ve got an excellent submissive,” he tells Will. “Absolutely perfect.”

Will smiles. “I got very lucky.”

They exchange more small talk – Hannibal’s future (residency at Harvard), Will’s current case load (a killer who puts beehives in people’s brains and another who makes mushroom gardens), and the recent revisions in many schools to allow submissives with the permission of their doms – and every time Hannibal shifts his feet, Will puts his hand back in his pocket.

After fifteen minutes, Hannibal apparently has enough. 

“Sir,” he says, pouncing upon the dean’s pause for breath. “May I have your permission to be excused? I need to use to the restroom.”

Will pretends to consider it. Then he tightens his hand on Hannibal’s waist. “Not now, my dear, I’m busy.”

He then resumes conversation with the dean, who clearly has an idea of what’s up but, as a fellow dom, is kind enough not to draw attention to it. Hannibal, meanwhile, stops shuffling altogether, and begins to instead shiver, very minutely, as the vibrations begin to truly take their toll.

After all, Will has kept him caged for quite a few months now.

Finally, after ten more minutes, Hannibal breaks. He shudders all over, like a dog trying to dry itself, and sinks to his knees, his fists clenched tightly at his side as he struggles not to paw between his legs, because the last time Will caught him disobeying and attempting to pick the lock, Will made him clean every inch of the house with a toothbrush. 

“Master,” he whines, the syllables cracking in his throat like ice under feet. “Master, please.”

And, well. What else can Will do, when his submissive begs so beautifully?

He looks to the dean. “If you’ll excuse me?”

They are excused, of course. They are hardly the only dom-and-sub pair attending this event, and many are covered by far less than what Hannibal wears right now, so that their doms may use them as they wish. There are even discreet guest playrooms, just as there are bathrooms, for any dominant to utilize if they need to. Will clicks a leash onto Hannibal’s collar and pulls him through the crowd, out of the doors and up the stairs and to the guest area, where a receptionist hands over a keycard and a room number. Will gets them to the their room – which has a sofa, a padded bench, a table, and a dresser – and then locks the door.

“Well, you’ve begged, with texts and with words, and I’ve listened,” Will says, watching as Hannibal trembles in place. “You know what to do now, if you want anything else out of me.”

With that as permission, Hannibal’s hands fly to his graduation gown. He pulls down the zipper, letting the black material ripple to the floor, and steps out. Then he bends down to take off his shoes and socks, tucking them neatly to the side. And then he sinks to his knees with a sigh, settling into the perfect posture of a waiting submissive, bearing nothing upon his skin but what Will allowed him to wear.

“Please, Master,” he says.

“And what do I get in return?”

“Anything,” Hannibal says, and his voice is desperation and fire, for although he would never attack Will as he once did upon their wedding night, with the intent to bite and tear and kill, he still has the instinct to leap upon Will to be beg for pleasure with his clever hands and skilled mouth – or to take it, the rare occasions Will lays back and lets him feast. “Anything, Master – you promised – you _promised_ me – ”

Will taps a finger against his mouth, considering. On one hand, he did promise Hannibal, as he locked him up tight and milked him dry to take away temptation, that he would let Hannibal come as soon as his place as valedictorian was secured and he received his diploma. On the other hand, Hannibal suffers so beautifully like this, tears threatening to break free just as shivers wrack his frame. He’s never caged Hannibal for so long before, and he’s half tempted to see if he can keep the record going.

He reaches out and puts his hand on Hannibal’s hair, combing through his immaculately styled strands and watching as Hannibal closes his eyes, taking pleasure in the touch of his dominant. “And what if I decide what I want is to wait, my dear?” he asks. “After all, I never specified when I would let you come.”

Heartbreak flashes across Hannibal’s face. Clearly he thought he could drag Will into a playroom the second graduation was over and finally get the release he’s been craving for months and months. 

But he doesn’t protest, because he is a good sub, and he knows to argue would not be in his best interest.

Hannibal licks his lips. “Then let me – let me have you, Master. At least that.”

“Greedy boy,” Will laughs. He steps around and nudges his foot at Hannibal’s bottom, where the vibrator locked into his chastity cage is nestled. “You had me last night. And unless you were naughty, my mark should still be wet inside you.”

“I was good,” Hannibal pouts. “I was _perfect_.”

“And perfection deserves a reward, does it?”

“If it pleases you.”

It does please Will, very much. He loves nothing more than to see Hannibal, writhing and crying in the grips of pleasure as he comes, especially when he does so because of Will – Will’s voice, Will’s hand, Will sheathed inside of him. But this is the game they play, each feigning indifference, and so Will abides by the rules, because he is not at the part yet where he breaks and gives in.

“It may,” Will says mildly. “Let’s see if you can . . . convince me.”

Will takes off his coat and hangs it neatly on the rack. Next goes his belt, followed by the contents of his pockets. The remote from his pocket, though, he keeps in his hand. There is only one setting left before it can go no higher.

Will pretends to check the time. “You have two minutes to convince me, Hannibal. Failure means I turn this all the way up and you contain yourself until I decide it’s time to go home. Displease me or misbehave, and you’ll earn yourself, at minimum, 20 lashes. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Master, I’ll be perfect, I swear it,” Hannibal promises, as eager now as he was when he first swore.

Will breaks character then; he rubs his thumb over Hannibal’s cheek and smiles. “I know you will,” he murmurs. 

Then he groans as Hannibal noses at his groin until he has freed Will and swallowed him down, employing every single technique he once learned from his time at the orphanage and the tricks he’s picked up in his time with Will, learning everything that ratchets Will higher and higher towards coming. After all, if Hannibal has proved anything, it’s that he is a dedicated and observant student, and he puts all of his studies to good use whenever Will gives him free reign. 

Will has no idea if two minutes pass or not – as soon as he gets too close to the edge, he grips Hannibal by the hair and drags him away, leaving Hannibal twisting and panting in his grasp, mewling plaintively.

“I’m convinced,” Will pants. “Well done.”

Hannibal grins then, victory clear in his eyes. This is the part where they drop their façade, where everything comes into the light, where everything is good and hot and perfect, and Will enjoys this bit just as much as the bit before. Will clicks his fingers and Hannibal twists and bends over, presenting beautifully so that Will can see every inch of him from behind.

Will still turns up the remote, though, just to see the way Hannibal jerks and whines, like he’s been kicked in the stomach.

Then he puts it down on the table, still at full power, and begins to leisurely walk towards his coat.

“Stay still and let me find the key,” he tells Hannibal, enjoying how Hannibal tracks him from the corner of one eye, desperation and fear warring inside of them. “Perfection deserves a good reward, after all. Now then: where did I put that key?”

* * *

He finds the key eventually, when Hannibal has lost his battle and is crying in the carpet, and then he sheathes himself deep inside where he belongs. Hannibal, perfect submissive that he is, takes all Will gives him, encouraging him on with whimpers and moans, and doesn’t even come until Will takes him in hand and whispers in his ear, just as Will trained him.

* * *

Afterwards – when they’ve cleaned up and redressed and emerged downstairs to mingle for an appropriate time – Will takes Hannibal home. Hannibal curls up in Will’s arm, every inch of him relaxed and tired, and he even starts to doze once the adrenaline wears off. Will just holds him tighter, smoothing a hand down his back and through his hair, and giving thanks to the day that Jack Crawford called him in to investigate a bizarre case of a dominant who had his throat torn out in an orphanage. Will had called it a rather clumsy murder, back then, before he’d gotten a good look at the scene and the submissive hovering in the corner. 

“In clumsiness and in perfection,” Will murmurs. “Til death do us part.”

Hannibal stirs, ever so briefly, under Will’s hand, attuned as ever to Will’s voice. “I was perfect, wasn’t I, Will?”

“Oh yes,” Will says. “Yes, you were, my Hannibal.”

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I'll have y'all know that the original prompt was supposed to be cute and fluffy along the lines of "During the wedding, Hannibal trips and face plants and he's terrified he'll be beaten but Will just laughs and scoops him up" and instead it became . . . whatever the hell this is. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this mess and wanna have fun with more Sub Hanni, come join the [Sub Hanni Discord](https://twitter.com/bonesandscales/status/1208357531430653957)! We get off topic a lot, yell with a lot of P A S S I O N, and baptize each other with new nicknames every other day. Oh, and also do proper things like discuss prompts and share inspiration and rec fics and art, etc etc etc.
> 
> Find me @ Telegram as TheSilverQueen : [Pillowfort as TheSilverQueen](https://www.pillowfort.social/thesilverqueen) : [Tumblr as thesilverqueenlady](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) : [Twitter as silverqueenlady](https://twitter.com/silverqueenlady) : [NewTumbl as thesilverqueen](https://thesilverqueen.newtumbl.com/) : [Dreamwidth as thesilverqueenlady](https://thesilverqueenlady.dreamwidth.org/)


End file.
